


The X To His Y

by TheSoulOfAStrawberry



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Crossdressing, Drug Use, John Plays Rugby, M/M, Sherlock Experiments on John, Teenlock, Uni!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-22 03:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSoulOfAStrawberry/pseuds/TheSoulOfAStrawberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he isn't high, 17-year-old Sherlock kindles an obsession with one ever-enigmatic and frustratingly elusive John H. Watson. He watches him on campus: playing rugby, studying, partying. Except it isn't enough; Sherlock wants closer, so he can work out what he finds so exceptional about him. And so he takes an extraordinary measure, and recreates himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Body

**Author's Note:**

> It's a weird plot idea but I think it might work. Feedback always appreciated- if you don't like something, tell me!
> 
> Edit: this will have multiple chapters, what it's telling you is a lie. I ticked the box, but it's not listening to meeeeee.

Heroin sped everything up. Made everything become both still and moving at the same time- so that everything around him became limpid and fleeting: colours, words, shapes, people, deductions, all awhirl in his mind in a beautiful maelstrom of intellect. Emotions faded: he could work in peace, cutting himself off from the world around him by lying on the couch for what Molly told him was literally hours, his hands steepled serenely underneath his chin, eyes closed in assiduous concentration.

That worked for Sherlock, most of the time. Off drugs, after all, that wonderful feeling, and the incredible boost they gave his already powerful mind, making him feel incorrigible, disappeared. Not only was the world back to its dull, lethargic pace, but awareness caught up with him and held him back. He spent a lot of time brooding, rather than organising his thoughts, because the emotions and the transport of outside life cluttered his brain, and made his brain work as if stuffed painfully full of cotton wool.

But he did have to stay off the drugs, sometimes: and not just for when Mycroft came nosing around his room on the university campus. No; there was one other reason.

John Hamish Watson.

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure why John intrigued him so. He did think about it, alot- it played on his mind almost constantly, an ubiquitous niggling, even when he was so full of ideas he was shaking. 

John was the complete opposite to Sherlock, in just about every way imaginable. For one, he was a good boy. He attended lectures (studying to be a medical man, Sherlock had noted); had a plethora of friends and played on the university rugby team. Rugby, not football- and he saw the temptation with the other sport, John being slightly more delicate than his often thuggish teammates; there seemed to be a fixation with being perfect with John, and, in his mind, rugby was the better sport to be seen playing. And he was good too- good enough to make Team A. He was generally admired by teachers and students alike, for his amicable personality and hardworking mindset; a concept that puzzled Sherlock, who hated both people and his dreary lectures.

Sherlock was one of those people John would be told to stay away from. John was one of those types of people Sherlock would be ridiculed for trying to relate with- for being too naïve, too weird, too much of an outsider, a bad influence. And yet, Sherlock was trapped.

He simply could not forget John.

It was one of those days where Sherlock was clean. It was also one of those days that John played rugby: throwing himself about on the pitch in the drizzle, grazing his thighs with mud, grit and grass. And the fact that those two things happened at the same time was no coincidence- Sherlock didn't believe in coincidence. The fact was, Sherlock didn't need drugs on days when John Hamish Watson was playing rugby, or could be seen doing any number of things, from cadaver dissections to reading literary classics in that vast library where Sherlock, too, spent many hours; devouring books on science and psychology and criminology and whatever else looked interesting. He would watch John through the bookshelves; or from the very back of the public viewing gallery, or, like today, from the commentator's box in the little-used seating over the turf, where he had broken in quite easily. 

The wide glass panelling in front of him was perfect: it kept out the cold as Sherlock watched the tiny figures beetling about on the pitch. Rain was falling in sheets. Slow sheets- they turned everything into a wet, grey haze. If he concentrated, he'd be able to slow time until he could capture each and every droplet falling individually, with their individual shapes, angles and trajectories. But he wasn't interested in the rain. Not today.

John never liked to play the same position. Sherlock didn't know the positions, but he knew that while John kept the same putrid yellow bib, he would take a different area of the pitch: some days he was at the front, facing down the other team with an admirably fierce look on his face; others, he would keep near the posts, looking for a pass from one of his larger, uglier friends. He played by the rules- yet, he wasn't afraid to get dirty either, Sherlock observed, as there was a rather nasty tackle and the shriek of a whistle cut the air. 

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the desk in front of him. Blew his unruly fringe. Changed his position on the chair so he was a tight ball, knees clutched to his chest in a way he'd been told looked childish, but nevertheless did, when no one was looking. His mind was craving for nourishment- well, not quite craving, more nagging. He wasn't addicted. The moment he became addicted, the limitless power he felt when he had a hit would no longer be his to control. 

Not to mention, he would have lost sight of the one thing that kept the real world intriguing. That flaxen-haired man, absent-mindedly tossing the rugby ball from palm to palm as he muttered something to himself. Sweat and rain running down his nose. Sherlock wanted to paint it on one of his messy conposition sheets, but he hadn't bought them, nor his violin, to the stand. Just himself, and his oversized coat, huddled away from the elements.

Except he wasn't alone. 

"Molly," he drawled, not looking round. He heard a scuffle.

"Sherlock, it... um... really creeps me out when you do that."

Sherlock probably should have apologised, but he was determined not to waste his energy doing so, and kept his eyes fixed on the game.

"Thought I might find you here," Molly said quietly after a few seconds, perching carefully beside him. Slightly too close for Sherlock's comfort, but he restrained himself from twitching or moving away. Molly may have been ditzy and overly protective of him- though her role was minutely to do with Mycroft's meddling- but she knew his secrets. Well, she knew what Sherlock tended to get up to while he wasn't attending the majority of his lectures, and, despite her drab exterior, she had a sharp eye; and, although she'd never mentioned it outright, he was aware that Molly knew why he did the things he did. Or why he came to odd parts of the campus at perculiar times. 

"You didn't go in again?"

Sherlock didn't need to answer. There was a sufficient proportion of sighing in the question itself for Sherlock to let Molly chug to her own conclusion, no matter how slowly. 

"You would have liked my lecture. I can show you some stuff, if you want to... And Robert left some notes, too, on your desk, just... Are you hungry?" Molly mumbled.

Sherlock tore his gaze to meet hers- two soft brown eyes meeting sharp green ones, words passing between them unspoken. Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. 

"I... Sherlock...? Not in here, at least." She nodded up to the sign on the panel above their heads, and Sherlock huffed with irritation. He'd yet to burn anywhere to the ground with a cigarette, and yet nowadays, he was forced to stand outside lobbies and doors with other bitter-faced smokers coughing and shivering as they pressed their yellowing fingers to their novelty lighters. 

Smoking also annoyed Molly, which is partially why he insisted on standing, waiting until his long legs had become less stiff, before shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his coat and stalking outside, Molly following with her backpack straps loosened and her arms weighed down with an exemplary number of books.

Sherlock used a match to light his cigarettes. He liked matches better. Sometimes, when he needed to think, he would drop one on something so he could watch the flames dance, inspiring a thought. 

The game was nearly over now. Not that Sherlock had been counting, or that he was aware of the score, if they were keeping one- he could merely read the lethargy in the players' muscles, and the way the scrums were less violent, that practice would be cut short today. Clearly, it wasn't just him who found the unrelentless rain soporific. 

Sherlock and Molly kept to the places Sherlock knew were out of sight to the players on the pitch. There was silence as smoke curled in front of Sherlock's face, cigarette hanging idly from his mouth as he let his mind wander.

"There's going to be a house party this weekend, they say."

"I hope my brother's not been talking to you about how I ought to broaden my social horizons."

"I don't talk you him as much as you think," she giggled quietly. "I do care about you myself- and anyway, um, that's not why. I know you don't like socialising, and it's impossible to convince you with anything. But... I... The med students are going. Well, y'know... Everyone is, but, I..."

Sherlock was staring at Molly. 

"What?" Molly panicked, rubbing her face to see if there were anything on it. After, however, she'd established that Sherlock was actually reacted to what she'd said, she broke into a small, meek smile.

"Hit a nerve?"

Sherlock turned away quickly, feigning ignorance, but Molly had already copped on, and grinned a grin only Sherlock would ever get to see, and rarely, at that. It was mischievous and cat-like, and reminded Sherlock why he let Molly get so close in the first place. 

"I think I know who you're always looking at," she said, returning to her shy persona. Sherlock furrowed his brow, in a look far too serious for someone as young as he: aged concern etched within the soft, shallow lines of his expression.

"Enlighten me," he deadpanned.

"I think you're after the one all the girls are after- little blonde heartthrob there-" Molly pointed, and Sherlock grabbed her hand, lest anyone see, or worse; that they grab someone's attention. Molly gave Sherlock a poke. "John Watson. Am I right?"

"Um..."

"Oh, look. Little Sherlock, speechless. I should call your brother, he'd want a photo," and she laughed a little tinkly laugh, like a brass liberty bell on the counter of a hotel reception desk. 

"I'm not _little_ , Molly," Sherlock protested, but it was weak. He wanted her to go away now- she'd ruined his time watching the practice. 

"Littler than everyone else here. 17, with baby-smooth skin."

Sherlock gave an angry puff of his cigarette in her direction, making it clear that he was not amused with her bringing up his age, or, in fact, his interests in that wonderful boy- who was, as a first-year, two years older than Sherlock. Sometimes, he regretted coming to university early, as, he was sure, Mycroft did, when he heard stories of how Sherlock had exposed a teacher's affair, or stole equipment from the labs for use in his private bedroom experiments.

Once Molly had finished coughing, she continued in her quest to get information about John out of Sherlock.

"Why not... go, then?"

It had taken her long enough to notice who it was Sherlock was following on days like this. He could have, and should have, made it less obvious, he was sure.

"I hate parties," he spat, "And I don't _want_ to talk to him."

"What?" Molly raised an eyebrow. "You don't want to talk to him, but you follow him around and everything and watch him do things? If you like him, just... say hi."

"I don't like him."

"...That was a really crappy attempt of convincing me otherwise," she giggled. 

"I just find him interesting." Sherlock frowned as the whistle blew once again, and the activity on the pitch changed- boys picking up equipment and sprinting for the changing rooms. In less than a minute, all that remained as evidence of the practice was the newly ploughed marks in the mud, and a lone plastic cone, forgotten in the far corner of the field.

"Then talk to him." She made an attempt to get up, but Sherlock held her down. They couldn't be seen leaving at the same time the practice ended- especially as there were a group of girls already heading for the stand's exit. Sherlock knew that. He wasn't to be seen, ever.

"They say he only has the rugby team as male friends. So it won't do either of you any harm."

"It will, now you've said that. If people have picked up on his lack of male friends then it's something that's ridiculously obvious, that he doesn't hang around with intellectual males or anyone who can't kick a stupid muddy ball. Hence, he will be defensive in my presence, either to keep his reputation or because he genuinely thinks like that- the latter being something I doubt, judging by his conversations in the library. Not to mention, if he's as popular as you say or as his online profiles suggest then we will be seen together and he will be warned of my reputation of being... all sorts of things. It will have been a pointless and destructive exercise that will ruin me every getting to talk to him again."

"Y-You've really thought it through."

"Of course," Sherlock scoffed. His mind didn't merely mull ideas over- it was a machine, ceaseless in its search for answers. Only when he had answers was he calm- hence, why he stalked John Watson- because he had no answer to why he interested him so, and it frustrated him to great length. He was to collect more and more data about him until, he hoped, he would find the answer and put the ghost to bed. 

His problem being, that the answer eluded him. It had been eluding him for a good few months now, and, at the back of his mind, Sherlock knew that if he didn't step up his game, the lack of an answer would begin to pull him back, and, potentially, start to destroy him.

He threw the cigarette down on the ground, much to Molly's disgust, and stubbed it out with the toe of his shoe, before lifting himself effortlessly off the seat.

"I need to think."


	2. Organ System

It wasn't until later that the idea formulated. 

Sherlock had a room with Molly. Unfortunately for the both of them, it was not in the same block as where the medical students roomed- hence, Molly was considered by Sherlock not to have a permanent status as his roommate, as she took at least two nights out from "babysitting" (as Sherlock often heard her refer to her rooming situation with some of her friends with higher social-standings) Sherlock a week to stay with friends in their medical-studies haven; or, at least, somewhere where she could get tipsy and giggle until her cheeks turned salmon pink without Sherlock shooting her an annoyed look. 

It was an unfortunate arrangement for Sherlock for numerous reasons, not least because Mycroft had arranged it all for him. Firstly, the medical students' room were across the square and down behind another building, meaning Molly never just popped out to get any books or anything: so when she was in for the evening, that was it. Sherlock spent an awful lot of brainpower filtering out the background noises of her listening to music, studying, or watching films with Colin Firth and Hugh Grant in. She also insisted they share the sofa of evenings, meaning Sherlock would almost invariably retire to his room, favouring sprawling out on his unmade-bed, and staring blankly up at the peeling paint. 

It was also a pain because it meant Sherlock didn't have the enriching milieu of being within the camaraderie of students taking, in his opinion, worthwhile degrees. The students either side of Molly and Sherlock were studying everything from Economics to Greek. They stayed up late, perhaps surreptitiously knowing they would be lucky to get a job in a supermarket, let alone pay off any student loans, getting completely and utterly blind drunk and doing countless stupid things, often including blow-up genitalia and jelly-shots. Sherlock reckoned he'd prefer having students around who, at the very least, shared his passions for the subjects they were studying.

Also, he'd be nearer John, and wouldn't have to take walks in his coat and pyjamas late at night before an exam to see John studying by the window: second window from the top, third from the left. The way he rubbed his eyes stubbornly with the heel of his hand when he was tired, and wore sad, saggy jogging jumpers, which revealed all the right parts of his interesting corpus.

Like his beautifully-toned shoulder.

It was one of those nights where Molly was in, and was just as bored as Sherlock. She flicked channels, and browsed the internet idly, looking at pictures of cats and snorting softly every now and again, before turning to show Sherlock something wholly unamusing.

Sherlock was watching her. Feeling unusually reserved with his invariable annoyance at the world, he had taken to sitting cross-legged at the end of the sofa, with his back against the arm, watching Molly leading her pitiful life. Though, of course, his mind was elsewhere. 

John played the clarinet. Sherlock was proud of the fact that he knew it- he'd dropped hints to Molly about the fact, and had questioned other blanks of students, but, as it turned out, only he, or certainly very few others, were intellectually pertained with such knowledge. 

The reason Sherlock knew, was because he'd gone to the music department in the late evening, about a month after he'd started at the university. The air was bitterly cold, and he'd slipped, unnoticed, up the dark stairwell and down the corridor on the top floor in search of a storeroom, from whence he could steal a new rosin for his poor bow from whomever's case looked the most pretentious. However, he was interrupted in his mission, upon seeing a light being cast around the edge of the doorframe and out from the small window in the door opposite Practice Room A. At first, he had thought to flee, but, being a craver of perculiar facts and blackmail material (for the odd purpose), his curiosity had gotten the better of him. He remembered creeping up to the door, when suddenly, there was a softly-blown arpeggio tickling his ears. It was controlled, slightly robotic, but altogether tuneful- not to mention, obscure, being much too late for any legitimate wind-instument practices. And so Sherlock had looked through the window, careful not to cast any sudden shadows, and was unnerved to see none other than that one boy, stood in the dead-centre of the room, with a rickety music-stand and a shiny instrument. 

He would have stayed longer, Sherlock reflected, had he not have been so caught aback and, though he hated to admit it, aflutter with nerves, with finding such an individual in a realm of the world he only ever visited under the cover of thick night. Since then, however, he'd tried to catch John's practices- only managing a few, thanks to the fact that he came, it seemed, when he could be bothered: so both time, location and day of the week was sporadic. Thankfully, unlike Sherlock, John liked convenience, so if Sherlock worked out which evenings John was free, he would lock all the doors on the second and third floor bar one- the one with optimum sound quality and a decent window, not to mention, the one Sherlock himself took for violin practice, when he could be bothered to leave his room. 

Sherlock didn't have qualms about John. He'd observed him long enough to have learnt his fundamental nature- John was passionate about medicine, but not music. The music was something on the side, probably, Sherlock deduced, the outcome of a parental pressure of related paranoia about the state of the job market. Yet, the fact that John could read notes of the page, just as Sherlock did, and make them sound coherent, made Sherlock smile- as if it were a shared language. Which, in a sense, it was. Music was certainly a more honest language than the everyday babble of English. 

As he'd played rugby, John wouldn't play that evening. He would be too tired, he expected. 

Molly had become suddenly absorbed with studying. She was reading some article on a website she'd evidently run across in her quest to find as many stupid cat pictures as possible- meaning it probably wasn't credible, and Sherlock therefore didn't bother leaning forward to have a gander. 

She was licking her lips as she read- changing the colour to a less intense rose, rather than the layer of candy pink overlaying it- how was that?

"I... I like what you've done on your lips. It makes them look... nicer." 

Molly regarded him with an air of disbelief, blinking at him whilst answering, "Thank you... Though... Uh... It's just make-up."

There was a pause, in which a little idea popped into his head.

"What kind of make-up?"

"It's... uh... lip-gloss. Sherlock, what are you thinking about? You've got that look on your face..."

"What is it that you wear on your eyelashes?" Sherlock was stubborn and forward. Molly tried to avoid things and make ridiculous small-talk all the time with him, so he was used to ploughing through her responses for the information he needed.

"Mascara. You're not using my make-up in one of your experiments, you know... Wha-"

Sherlock sprang up from the sofa, taking Molly by surprise as he leapt over her, tattered dressing-gown fluttering out behind him like limp wings as he flew into his room, emerging moments later carrying a notepad. Molly watched him flicking through, before he found a spare page around all his messy writings and began jotting a list. 

Molly turned the television off at the remote, which normally annoyed her (she liked to save power), but Sherlock didn't notice, too engrossed in his idea to stray outside of his delicate sphere of thought.

"Sheeerlooooccck..." Molly whispered, as the wind whistled a melancholy dirge in the small space between the window and the pane, across the room. Sherlock's pen skimmed almost effortlessly across the paper, as if he were commanding its speed with the full force of his terrifying and beautiful mind; the page exploding with scrawly black ink, all arrows and dots and a storm of letters, mapping his ideas. Sherlock didn't show Molly- though she did try to make sense of it all, initially from upside down, but eventually shuffling up into his personal space, and taking the fragile paper between the nook of her index finger, and her thumb. 

"Skirt... Make-up..." Her eyes skimmed the list as she mumbled softly. "Bra?!" she yelped. She was ever so close, and Sherlock could feel her processing next to him. "What on earth-"

"I need your help," Sherlock deadpanned, keeping his voice a simple monotone, so to make his point crystalline. 

"I-In what way, exactly?" she squeaked, still reading the list. She re-read it. 

"Isn't it obvious?" 

"To you, maybe."

"I need you to get me these things." Molly looked perplexed, if not a bit shocked, so Sherlock pressed on, eager to explain his point before she got any wrong ideas. He talked quickly. "I need to get closer to John, and I obviously can't do it as myself. You say he talks to rugby team members- well, I could try to join, but I'd still have the reputation I have and to be quite frank and slightly understated, sports were never really my area. So I couldn't even reinvent myself with a new identity- so, next step is, you said he hung out with girls. Talking to said girls is out as they have the combined IQ of a mountain goat and the subtlety of an elephant, and I could use you but you're too meek and wouldn't give the the intricate data I require- it needs to be a first-hand investigation. So a girl? No matter what they say nowadays, a girl will find more out about a boy if she were to grow close to him- take you and I, and Mycroft and I, as a solid example. Disguise should be easy enough, done right." He ran his hand though his short curls, losing his train of thought and staring down Molly instead, waiting for an answer.

She didn't give one. At least, not immediately. She stared dumbly at him for a good minute: though Sherlock easily read the micro-expressions brushing her facial muscles; worry, confusion, anger, reservation, angst and stubbornness. She flicked her mousy hair from her eyes, taking the list gently from Sherlock, and reading it through, slowly, one more time. 

"Sherlock, this is cowardly. And idiotic."

"On the contrary, it's brilliant." There was a low hiss in his voice, like cold water against a hot pan, that Sherlock hadn't meant to make; it portrayed the point as a menacing one, rather than a mere matter-of-fact.

"No- what, can't you see? You say you don't know why you are so interested in John Watson- why not just face the truth! Even Mycroft can see it, y'know... You jerk. Knowing you, you'll succeed, but you only end up finding out exactly what I could tell you right now but instead creating this great big mess with John in the centre and all these lies and it'll destroy you," Molly looked sad, in those nice hazel eyes of hers, but she spoke without fail or pause and with scintillating deliberation in every syllable. 

"No, Sherlock snarled, going to snatch back his list, but missing. " _Not_ doing this will destroy me."

"This isn't just another puzzle! John's a person; and it's obvious why you follow him around- you like him, but God you won't admit that to yourself and-"

"Everyone is a puzzle; John is a particularly fascinating one. It has nothing to do with mere emotions."

"Jesus, Sherlock." Molly had pushed her laptop, along with the list, onto the coffee table (cratered with mug-stains and littered with scraps of paper), and now held her head in her hands, staring wearily up at him, a glint of something unfamiliar in her chesnut eyes. "You are a person. Emotions aren't weaknesses."

"Then you'll want to help me explore my supposed strengths then," Sherlock said airily, standing up and beginning to pace between the sofa and the opposite wall. Restless. 

"No," Molly replied, but she was fiddling with her pyjama sleeves. She would cave, Sherlock knew that. Despite him being her junior, she admired him: and yet, he thought, as he face hardened, not enough yet to know that, as usual, this plan would work. It had to work. It always worked. He was Sherlock bloody Holmes; studying at a Russell Group university at the ripe age of 17, with a strong reputation as a genius and a psychopath, crafted in only a few months. 

Molly didn't see that. Not this time, at any rate. 

Sherlock came to a halt in the middle of the carpet as Molly caught his eye, and stood, transfixed in his battle of the unspoken, and boldness against the fizzling tension frissioning up his spine.

"Would you rather I went on following him round everywhere?" Sherlock enunciated, laying it down in simple, if not sympathetic terms to achieve the utmost clarity in his intentions. It wasn't about lying or anything- experiments were experiements, and he had no intention of emotionally bonding with the blue-eyed subject much. All Molly needed to do was agree to help him in his plan, the one plan that had the potential to free Sherlock's mind from its chains, and set him free from his single, painful fixation.

The thrill of an answer might keep him off heroin.

"I think you've got to find a better, less ridiculous... Oh God, it'll probably work... A plan that doesn't include you unwittingly seducing... him."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. He wasn't getting it across to her- he was a sociopathic genius, not a ditzy med-student. Their minds were wired in completely different ways. 

It wasn't long before Sherlock had to escape. He didn't say anything;, just left, treading through the tension as if he were trapped in a huge basin of viscous fluid. He would sometimes wonder what it'd be like once he finished (or didn't finish) his degree, and whether he'd ever have to find a flatmate who wasn't staying because his brother had interviewed them and offered to pay half of their rent. A lifetime of tedious, menial arguments; having to hide his needles and stash in case of discovery, and having to confine experiments and violin practice to both his bedroom and social hours. 

The air outside was fresh. It was sharp on his cheeks- biting with a ferocious cold that would leave the grass crying tiny, glistening beads by the early morning. He'd not bought a coat, and so remained hunched under the lobby area of the block, leaning against the wall the root for his matches and cigarettes. 

The match was a beacon in the night- striking up yellow light and strange shapes in the previously black air. He watched the flame dancing for a moment at the end of the finger of wood, before holding it to the end of the ciagrette until it glowed warmly, and he gave a long, slow exhalation. 

Maybe he would have to be tactful about getting Molly to assist him. Butter her up, demonstrate the lack of an alternative, and, in the meantime, learn what it what it was that John went for in a female. Trust, Sherlock supposed, if he were to get any decent information from him; though he wasn't sure if it was necessary, he would hopefully find that simple observation would be sufficient. Perhaps physical features that meant John would be more prone to open up, or at least favour his company over others. 

Molly was ridiculous to think Sherlock would be able to "seduce" John. Firstly, he couldn't make it any clearer how little to do with emotions. Secondly, to avoid any escalation in such a situation, it would be as easy as pulling off a wig and declaring himself a male. 

Unless some were to be believed, regarding John Watson's orientation.

Other than that, it was foolproof.


	3. Organ

It hadn't been because of Molly, why he didn't return back to the dorm. Quite the contrary- it was entirely his own doing, and he found himself quite forgetting his problems with Molly as he wandered out into the night.

It was one of those nights, where girls didn't walk around by themselves, for fear of the hooded figures Sherlock sometimes saw hunched on the corner. Lurking. There was something ephemeral about them, as if they didn't really exist; but then he'd caught the eye of one once, glinting in the dark. It was too sharp, too gritty, too real to forget.

Tonight, though, he didn't see any of them. He would never admit it, but he tended to quicken his pace around the corner, avoiding looking at the painfully short cigarette stubs and star-like shards of glass littering the gutter. The boughs of the trees played an eerie percussion to the tempo of his footsteps as he followed the path with an acute sense of urgency, but no sense of direction. 

It was only when the hours started waxing instead of waning, that it began to drizzle again, and the streetlamps went out with a barely audible ping. Plunged into darkness, surrounded by nothing but wet pavements and the wailing of the wind in the branches about his head, alone. 

Sherlock didn't turn back. He walked. Head to the ground, hands thrust deep into his pockets, wet hair sticking to his clammy forehead. He still persisted even when the rain got heavy, and raindrops began bouncing off the tarmac. It sounded like the ground was applauding him- a standing ovation, no doubt- alas, he could not appreciate its emotionless and inanimate appreciation, instead having to quicken his pace, as cold rainwater started seeping into his socks. He kept his face down. Partially against the downpour, but more so, in that he didn't want to be seen.

He could have chosen to have gone to sit outside John's room. His feet had taken him past there no fewer than three times previously that evening; and he would have loved to have gone to the music rooms to play a solo. De Falla's "Spanish Dance", perhaps: a melody he would have done great justice in his current mood of high drama, as it tumbled elegantly from the taught strings of his beloved Stradivarius. He could have also wandered the corridors of whichever building took his fancy, wallowing in his own melancholy thoughts in deathly silence. And yet, in a break with normality, he did none of these things, turning his back on the university, his violin and John Watson. The strict confines of the university walls suffocating, and instead, as if in parenthesis, he opted to make his shadowy way into town, ducking into an all night café in the suburbs. It was a favourite of his, not least for the interesting types of people it attracted, being frequented by the homeless, lost and desperate. 

The light was harsh. It snapped him out of whatever he was thinking about (he couldn't remember) and pulled him back down into his jumper, heavy with water. 

He hadn't realised he had been breathing so hard. 

Skeletal fingers spread what was hopefully sufficient change on the counter, as he smiled painfully; "Tea, please."

The girl behind the counter- sallow-faced underneath her heavy make-up, gave him a friendly smile, and he averted his eyes as she slid twenty pence back across the counter, and muttered something about taking a pew.

All eyes followed him to a seat away from the window: one in the corner, where he could see the whites of everyone's eyes- the two staff, the old man in the khaki coat, and the Bulgarian sitting with a dishevelled Jack Russell curled up at his feet, which, once deeming Sherlock uninteresting, went back to watching the sheets of rain in the beam of amber light coming from the forlorn streetlamp next to the delicatessen.

Sherlock did his best to wipe the rainwater from his face and hair. He could see his reflection in the window- his cheeks were flushed from the sudden warmth, and his hair was awry from the wind and rubbing; yet, despite the life in his demeanour (crossing his legs as he accepted the tea from the waitress), his eyes were scarily dull and blank. Perhaps it was the lack of drugs playing tricks on his mind, or his heavy mood, but it was almost as if the soul had been sucked from his very being. With a bendy straw, or more menacing implement. 

Then again, it could have been that he was staring at his own reflection in a café window, outside which a storm was raging against the deserted pavements and dark buildings. 

The tea was good. Strong, with a generous dash of the milk of human kindness- like John, Sherlock reflected, dipping his finger in to create ripples on the rich colours of the liquid. 

He must have fallen asleep before he finished the mug, because he awoke what felt like fifteen minutes later, his cheek damp against the table, the mug cold in his right hand, and the first hints of pink staining the sky above the charcoal horizon of the city. 

No, he wasn't sulking with Molly. He was exasperated, yes, but for him, it was neither here nor there if he caught sleep on a table, though it wasn't because of her or her refusal to see through his plan. Even in the stark morning, his plan was still brilliant. 

No one seemed to notice him waking up, giving his shoulders a flex and yawning away the mysteries of sleep. Then again, there weren't any customers left. Just a lonely cashier, leaning wearily over a gaudy prize crossword behind the till, who merely blinked when he got to his feet unsteadily. 

Outside, it was that moment of damp calm, the part of the morning where people were still pressing the snooze button, with the odd commuter wandering towards the train station, clasping mugs of coffee against the brisk cold as if the cups themselves contained the elixir of life. They looked lost, Sherlock mused. Not in that they didn't have direction: it was quite clear that the train station was indeed their intended destination, thanks to the particular brand of elite urgency stricken across the creases of their faces- but they looked as if they thought themselves to be meaningless. It had been a good while ago, but Mycroft had once asked him if he thought people would think more of themselves if they noticed the things Sherlock noticed; the individual quirks about a person that detailed their every minute movement across the great expanse of life. An amalgamation of seemingly meaningless scratches, freckles, idiosyncrasies, and micro-expressions. At the time, Sherlock had said no, based on the fact that it did not exhilirate him to deduce and factorise his mother, father, or Mycroft; or even himself, when he could still view his entire body when stood close to the full-length mirror.

Watching one particularly plain man striding down the road, and thinking of John, he had to wonder if he'd been wrong, all those years ago.

Sherlock walked quickly back up to the university, keeping to the shadows and appearing, as he was so fond of doing, as a faceless person, those passing him not acknowledging his existence with even a glance. These kinds of tactics was the reason very few people knew Sherlock at the university, except those in his classes, where it seemed, turning up fleetingly to hand in miraculous essays (now and again, with questionable relevance) would gain an individual a lot of attention, some unwanted. 

It also helped not to be noticable, when he slipped into the back of John's lectures, and watched him take furiously meticulous notes. 

As Sherlock approached the university, he began to feel weariness catching its merry way up with him. It started with a general droopiness of his limbs, and heavy lids; but eventually his mind tumbled into its own sleep-deprived frenzy, and he found himself rubbing his forehead, not really paying attention as he wandered through the front gates and to the left.

How could Molly think that leaving his... desires, to fester, would be in any way auspicious? It would just lead to more drugs. Different drugs. They said LSD was like having your subconscious splattered across a windowless, doorless room in Technicolour: and while he had no want to get addicted to anything, he needed an outlet for his frustrations. Had he not had been too proud, he would have asked Mycroft. But, he remembered, he would have to give him a healthy dose of vintage port first, without him noticing that Sherlock was trying to intoxicate him, which he invariably did. Or else, he would get the same special-brand Mycroft jargon as always. 

"Do what I did, Sherlock." Sherlock recited to himself, "Stick to the beaten path, do not pass go, get a first degree in something obscure and land yourself a cushy if not close-fitting job doing something (not even Sherlock knew what) in the government, and live your life at ten tried-and-tested and non-refundable locations. With taxis and red velvet cake in the midst of it all. Life becoming a desolate haze of offices, tea-trolleys, and chastising Sherlock.

He cocked a smile, exhausted.

The door at the bottom of the stairs had, quite thankfully, been left unlocked. Not that he ever expected the dull Humanties students to ever have the common sense to lock it on the way in from their pretentious morning jogs, but the caretaker was a particularly cunning fellow with keen, beady eyes. Sherlock was prepared to overlook his one discrepancy from the norm, since it turned, as ever, in his favour.

Sherlock paused momentarily, considering having one last cigarette before returning to sulk, just as the icing on the cake (as Molly disapproved of anything that was not zen. What else could one expect from an aspiring pathologist?), but concluded quickly that there was still potential to carry out his plan.

The stairs were littered with wrappers and bottles, a crude contrast agianst the grandeur of the gates he'd just passed through. Granted, it didn't smell unpleasant, but it was hardly homely. 

Speaking of homely, Sherlock thought, as he opened the door to his and Molly's room, and proverbially gawped (in reality, he was the picture of impassivity). For there, in the centre of the carpet, as if he'd been waiting for him to return, was his older brother.

Mycroft.

"Isn't your desk missing you already?" Sherlock remarked scathingly, not even trying to hide his annoyance at finding him there. It was cheap: the consequence of a late night and being taken by surprise. Mycroft looked disgusted by the state of the place, trying hard not to let his eyes wander to the scattered papers, open books and laptop leads. He'd probably seen the scuff on the carpet where Sherlock wedged his box of syringes and handy teaspoon under the sofa too. Besides sometimes Molly, Mycroft was the only person Sherlock could not fool. Ever.

"Always a pleasure to take time out to see my little brother," Mycroft matched his tone of voice silkily and effortlessly as Sherlock shut the door. Molly didn't seem to be in, he noticed, glancing into the kitchen as he edged towards Mycroft. 

Mycroft now seemed to be drinking in his entire being. No doubt, he was deducing Sherlock's every minute movement in the previous two days- that was how long it had been since Sherlock had showered, after all. 

Two could play at that game, Sherlock smirked. He scanned the elder Holmes from top to toe: even more expensive suit than last time Sherlock had seen him, judging by the stitching; shoes pristine, as he'd not taken to cutting across the lawn like Sherlock; and his watch, poking out from under the immaculate cuff, an hour out. Naturally: it was bait. His gaze wandered back up the elder Holmes' arm, along his- no, wait.

"Molly doesn't know you're here," Sherlock's eyes glinted. As expected, Mycroft smiled; a twisted cross between a contented cherub and a calculating Lucifer.

"Explain."

"For a man who moves as little as you do, the creases on your right sleeve seem a little out-of-place. Indeed, because while you may have the key to this place, you don't know the lock's foreign, and the key turns the other way. So you tried to force the door open with your elbow, before trying the key again. Molly would have got the door for you, had she have known. Also, her phone's not on the coffee table, and she leaves it here when she's only popping out, in case I need it. Incidentally, don't think I fell for that watch trick."

Mycroft looked at him blankly, for an obscure three seconds, before raising an eyebrow, an unconscious smirk spreading like hot butter across his lips.

"Very good, Sherlock. Though, actually, I returned from Paris an hour ago. Bit of a bust up regarding the Spanish Ambassador's suitcase, I'm afraid; though I daresay you've not seen the news."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock demanded.

"Certainly not to see my gracious younger brother." Mycroft took a seat, crossing his legs effeminately. Though he didn't know it, Sherlock would hallucinate the expression on his older brother's face on all four walls of his bedroom, and his ceiling, later that day.

"Golly, Mycroft, never knew you burnt such a flame for Molly," the teenager scoffed in return, but quickly found himself shutting up, when he was regarded with a stern gaze; one he was familiar with, one that was engrained into his childhood like a knife in a hunk of bloodied meat. 

"A little bird told me that you want to capture the heart of the esteemed rugby player," Mycroft's nose shrivelled as he extracted a slim, sleek file from his briefcase and perused it with an air of distaste, before continuing, "...John H Watson."

"Heart?" The word tasted foreign, and so Sherlock spat it at the older man. "I don't need you to help me observe Watson. Experiments are experiments, for the scientists, not the crooks."

Mycroft's nose glistened with beads of sweat, but he remained admirably still, leaning slightly forward over the file and sneering without letting any emotion reach his eyes.

"You're an angry boy, Sherlock, with... problems," his eyes scanned the room for proof, "So I am a champion for anything... or anyone, for that matter, with even the slightest of chances of changing you, Sherlock Scott Holmes."

"Since when does a social experiment have any potential to change anyone?" Sherlock yelled, leaping to his feet and stepping over the top of the chair and into the kitchen, where Mycroft's eyes followed him as he began to prepare some form of nutrition, involving bread, cheese and Molly's jalapeños. 

"Since you want to reshape both your identity and gender for the sake of some pubescent Lothario."

"Lothario?" Mycroft was trying to rile him, and despite his efforts, Sherlock couldn't help but feel a twinge of something- annoyance, hurt?- as he dragged Sainsbury's Basics margarine over the surface of each slice of bread.

"My my, Sherlock. Yes..." Sherlock heard the flicking of paper, and looked back into the lounge to see Mycroft grinning nefariously at the second page of the file. "Says here..." 

Sherlock wasted no time in throwing the bread back onto the counter and storming into the lounge, bristling with anger as he confronted his brother's reserved smirk. He was gripping the file tightly. 

Sherlock didn't have time for this. He was dying for a hit. It wasn't a craving, but he could feel his veins screaming for release as he balled his fists into the sides of his legs. 

"Give it to me."

Mycroft took no notice of the fact that Sherlock looked as if he were about to pull a knife on him. Calmly, and without so much as a glance downwards, he closed the file, and blinked, licking his lips. Sherlock's mind raced: was he nervous? Hungry- no, obviously dehydrated thanks to the long flight, and the almost negligible white residue in the corner of his lips. He wasn't sure how he could use that against his brother, other than keep him still for long enough to drive him mad, which would be at least another few hours, and therefore not quite worth it on Sherlock's part. 

"You may have the file, and I will supply you with the... equipment, as I might put it, for your ridiculous little _social experiment_ ," he had to force the words through his teeth, "On the condition that you attend your lectures- and," he said quickly, as he saw Sherlock's eyes flash, "That you confide your relations with this John Watson to Molly, who has the power to step in if she thinks you are becoming a threat to... Well, yourself. Or this pet of yours, who I can't say is much skin of my nose, but then, he's managed to catch the attention of my little brother, so..." A smile was barely touching the corner of his lips. "Do we have a deal, Sherlock?" he drawled.

Sherlock couldn't quite believe his luck. He was trying to think his way around it, trying to figure out ways in which Mycroft could manipulate this to his advantage; and other than the fact that Sherlock would genuinely have to attend his dull lectures, he really couldn't see anything standing in his way. No intricate plan, no tingling web of cause and effect, no happy "coincidences". 

The corner of Sherlock's lip turned upwards, and he crossed his arms defiantly.

"Deal."


End file.
